


Tempered Steel

by Melkoring



Category: Among Thieves, Sworn in Steel, Tales of the Kin Series - Douglas Hulick
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, canon divergency, depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5026387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melkoring/pseuds/Melkoring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They didn’t call him Wolf for nothing. What an arsehole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Wolf's Den

**Author's Note:**

> canon-verse with a few divergences - i have no idea when exactly this is set... sometime in/around sworn in steel?? i suppose, an alternate situation of sorts... fuck if i know, i just spend my life writing fic about these losers for a non-existent fandom. seriously, im starved for these losers. my tumblr is queerglorfindel.tumblr.com if y'all wanna come rant at me about these fuckin losers.
> 
> MAJOR spoilers ahead btw, so i would recommend not reading this if you haven't finished SiS bc FUCK the plot twists in that MESSED ME UP and u dont wanna miss out on that kind of high-quality emotional trauma.
> 
> i plan at least one or two more chapters for this?? my friend maca (lifewhatisthat.tumblr.com) and i are doing a collab, where i write the fic (this monstrosity that youre about to feast your eyes on) while maca draws a comic/scenes from it.
> 
> enjoy, y'all.

Drothe’s breath was like fire; each gasping one he took charred the inside of his throat just a little bit more. His feet were leaden, muscles screaming, and his bones felt brittle - at any second now, Drothe was sure his left fibula would shatter and he’d go down like injured rabbit in a mutt’s jaws.

But there was no other choice but to keep running. _Keep twisting, keep his feet moving._ There was no time to look to his left, but he knew even Degan would be breaking a sweat at this point. He’d been leading the way, but Drothe knew the maze of streets better than Degan ever would - Degan treaded the occasional back-alley, sure, but Drothe _breathed_ the grime and soot of the inner-city. It just went to show how much Drothe needed him, if not only because his legs were marginally longer than his were. _Marginally._

_He’d_ been on their tail since midday, but he’d barely managed to nip at them since then. One little mistake, one wrong turning, and suddenly everything had gone to shit. Five Cutters coming in from the right, three to the left, and _him_ in the centre - not so much pulling the strings of the chase, rather using them to strangle the air out of Drothe’s lungs.

They didn’t call him Wolf for nothing. What an arsehole.

Two steps in front of him and three to the left, Degan’s pace began to slow. He was lost. Perfect.

There was no time to come to a complete halt, so Drothe veered off to jog at Degan’s side, breathing still ragged and fierce. The taste of copper was thick on his tongue and fist-bruised lips. “We can’t keep running like this,” he said. “We’ve been running for half the fucking day. We need to hide.”

Degan grunted only once in response. They had hardly taken a break since the sun had set, and Drothe could see the tell-tale signs of exhaustion creeping up on him - on _Degan_ , of all people. He didn't know when they had taken a wrong turn, but none of his surroundings looked familiar. Drothe turned his head to find Degan looking down at him. His thoughts were written clearly across his face, scrawled in the furrow of his brow and the purple bruises marking his cheeks: _I regret bringing you into this, Drothe._

Drothe sniffed and turned away. Now, with all of Steel's people coming after them, this wasn’t the time for such regrets.

"Where?" Degan brushed the sweat off of his brow with his free hand, the other gripping his sword until his knuckles were flushed with white.

Trying to keep up with the purpose in Degan’s long strides was keeping the breath from Drothe’s lungs. After this, he thought, he either needed to grow taller, or make shorter friends.

_If_ they survived, that is. And there was a good chance they wouldn’t.

Drothe jerked his head up to rooftops, the sharp angles faintly glowing gold, but he knew it would be nothing more than a murky silhouette in Degan’s unaltered eyes. “Up there,” he said, after taking a short moment to catch his breath. “Tip over a flower pot, make it look like we went left, and then leg it up there. It’s getting dark, if we’re quick, they won’t see us. Sound good?”

Degan nodded. In Drothe’s night vision, his blonde hair shone with a soft light, brighter than gold but not quite white. Even where the wide rim of his feathered hat set the angle of his jaw in shadows, he could still pick out each faintly shining scar and freckle, like stars in the night sky.

"As good a plan as any," Degan said. He could barely see the outline, but Drothe hoped it was still visible enough for him to climb it with minimal difficulty. Reaching out with the blade of his sword, Degan nudged a pot off of the window ledge and winced when it shattered. Had they had the time, Drothe might have flicked a copper owl or two onto the broken pot as an apology. But time wasn’t exactly a luxury they had right now, and by the time the crash of it reached him, he was already pulling himself up onto the wide overhang above the doorway, and readying himself for the final leap onto the roof. Nothing he hadn’t done before.

With Degan still some way behind him, Drothe chanced a look over his shoulder - and regretted it instantly.

Armed thugs, racing towards them, their weapons bright even in the low light and their figures ringed with brilliant, dangerous crimson. No sign of Wolf just yet, thank the Angels. Still, the Angels could go screw themselves for letting them get into this mess in the first place.

Drothe leant down from the overhang where he perched and thrust out a hand to Degan. “Hurry,” he hissed. “They’re coming. Quick, before they see us.”

He watched Degan quicken his pace in those last few meters - the plea in Drothe’s voice had been enough to feed the fire under his heels. They could hear the footsteps getting closer, an ever-growing threat on the horizon like the distant rumble of thunder or the burble of noise in the back of a beast's throat before it pounces. From here, Drothe couldn't tell how many of them there were but he doubted it was a small number. Wolf never left things half finished, Degan had made that clear. Even if that meant coming down himself to finish the job.

With Degan safely (or safely enough, given the circumstances) on the roof, Drothe chanced another glance at their pursuers. Since he’d last counted, Wolf had added more onto their tail - three Arms and seven more Cutters to his already overflowing gang.

Saying they were outnumbered, at this point, would have been the opening line of a comedy act. And, by the Angels, Drothe _hated_ actors.

He related this information to Degan, careful not to allow his voice to be too loud. He could see their figures, glowing with fire in his night vision, studying the broken flower pot, and found he could breathe again, just barely, when three of them disappeared into the street to the left.

Degan let out a quiet chuckle at the words. He followed Drothe’s footsteps further along the roof. Drothe looked up just in time to see Degan quirk his head to the side. "Where next?"

“Away from them,” Drothe said on the instant. There was no time for consideration. There was barely time to breathe. “We might be able to pull the dodge on a couple of Cutters, but Wolf’s - Steel -” he corrected, glancing at Degan, “he’s not so dumb. He’ll realise soon enough, and he’ll be up here chasing us until morning before we know it. If we make it until morning, that is.”

Degan looked over to where the rooftop ended, and Drothe followed Degan’s gaze, at the pathway of tiles stretched out before them.

"Can you make that?" Degan asked, but Drothe was already nodding as he gestured to the opening.

Drothe snorted. “Of course,” he had been about to tell Degan, but the clamour of hard boots on wood and a cacophony of shouts from down below - and getting dangerously closer to them - cut his words short.

He could feel Degan tensing behind him, could feel his own body overcome with a chill. His already-sore feet started throbbing merely at the thought of more running and heavy landings from roof to roof - the climb up here had been more than taxing, and Drothe had scaled far more for far less.

But Wolf would never let them run far. He’d proven that more than enough. At this point, it was quite literally fight or flee, and Drothe dreaded the choice he knew that Degan would inevitably make.

Now, even in the shroud of darkness, pockmarked with stars hidden behind a haze of city smoke, Degan could see the outlines of the Cutters. If Degan could see them, then they were in close proximity.

Drothe swallowed - Degan had taken up his guard. He knew what was going on in Degan’s head; he always did, and he didn’t like it. _Maybe I could hold them off long enough for Drothe to escape._ Hell no. Not on Drothe’s watch.

Degan was already gripping his sword. Drothe was close enough to see a glimmer in Degan’s eyes - Degan had explained it once as liquid fire dancing in his veins. Even after all these years, he still didn’t look completely used to it.

By the time Drothe looked up at Degan again, Degan’s feet were sliding into position. He shook his head. “No - Degan, no. We can’t fight him, not all of them. We agreed to hide! And you can bet your ass that I’m not hiding alone.” A tug on Degan’s arm, but the man was like stone. “We need to move. Now.”

"There's no time," Degan said as sternly as he could. He glanced back at Drothe. "They're here for me, Drothe."

“What, so you think I’m just going to run off and escape by myself? You can fuck right off if you think that. You think I’m going to let them tear you apart?” This was a long shot, Drothe knew - in fact, they both knew that it would be Degan commanding the bloodshed, at least until Wolf stepped into the scene and gave him an equal target to swing at. But he was getting desperate. “We’re both going. Fuck the Order, and especially fuck Wolf.”

The whole Order was a mess, but Degan was dead if he thought he could sort it out by himself.

Drothe growled when Degan still didn’t budge, expression as stern as the steel he was about to face. Drothe pressed his lips into a thin line. Three more seconds and Wolf and his cronies would be on top of them.

“Fine,” he said firmly. He drew out his rapier. “Have it your way. So we fight.”

"Drothe -"

Drothe gave him a warning glance. Degan stopped himself. He knew better than to argue.

He nodded once and got into position.

Drothe frowned. Did Degan really think Drothe wouldn’t notice the way he angled his body, just enough to protect him from any full-frontal attacks? It was ridiculous, really.

Then Drothe eyed the Cutter that fell limp on Degan’s bronze-edged scimitar a second later, gushing red at the throat where he’d been pierced. He looked like a big man, easily large enough without the bar of iron that some brutes might call a sword in his ham-like fists, to knock him out with one punch. Perhaps he would thank Degan for taking the man out later, after all…

Another, having foregone the stairway of crates and simply used her nimble frame to clamber up the opposite wall and bound off onto their roof, swung at Drothe from the side. He barely managed to dodge the neat arc with a stumbled sidestep, and swing back his blade to meet her next attack. The song of steel on steel echoed through the night, and suddenly Drothe found himself wondering if they would be waking up any family members inhabiting the house they had turned into their battleground.

Having stepped off to the left, Degan dusted another two before managing, just barely, to grab Drothe and pull him in time for his attacker's blade to miss. It was a close call; had he waited another second or two, the blade would have cut. Drothe only saw a crescent of silver as the blade sliced through the empty space he had occupied just a moment before.

Degan had already turned his attention back to the others, but it had taken Drothe a second to realise that it was Degan who had grabbed him, and not Wolf - who had been steadily making his way towards them. The endless flow of thugs had them cornered like mice in a room full of cats. Wolf was clearly taking his time; it was almost mocking. Drothe didn’t need his night vision to see the expression on his face, to see the horrid triumph that lingered in his grimace of a smile.

While the shouts and clash of weapons was deafening, Drothe caught glances amidst the blur of bloodied steel and cloth and flesh of Wolf’s lips moving. “…nuisances,” he was saying, or something of the like. He was looking at Drothe, and it was only his last dregs of stubborn pride that had Drothe meeting his gaze full on. “I’ll get rid of you first, Kin, and then the grownups can talk.”

Drothe felt one of his feet move backwards, the balls of the feet slipping on the dust of roof. His balance was teetering, a world of brick and dust beckoning him from below. Wolf - Steel - Drothe couldn’t keep up with his names anymore, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to - _he_ prowled towards him. Drothe could feel his hands shaking, his feet stumbling as if the ceramic tiles had turned to ice, and then, suddenly, there was only emptiness beneath his feet. Wolf’s claws coiled around his throat.

Whomever had given the degan his name clearly knew what they were on about - Wolf’s grip was like steel around his throat, his fingernails knives that dug into the soft flesh. Wolf had him hoisted up by the neck - kicking out his feet madly, Drothe tried to get his leverage back, but he was being held too far out. Drothe suddenly found himself not wanting Wolf to let go. Letting go meant his face meeting shit-slicked stone slabs almost fifteen feet below.

There was a blur of blonde somewhere close to Wolf’s left shoulder, but it could just as easily been another one of his Cutters - his hand was like a vice and the black ring slowly inching it’s way around Drothe’s vision was making it hard to tell the different patches of gold and red apart.

Somebody was shouting something - directly down at him now, it seemed, and desperate enough to carry above the rest of the noise. It might have been Degan; it might have been his name.

There was just enough time for Drothe to realise that Wolf’s grip had disappeared, replaced instead by a uncomfortable floating sensation. And then his hair was wet with blood before his vision flickered with black and bright lights.

He’d been wanting a nap anyway...


	2. City of Brass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i actually updated a fic??? four medals for me.
> 
> i have one more part planned for this (maybe two if i can get off my arse and figure out how to write smut, lmao, like that's ever gonna happen so dont get ur hopes up) so i'll try get that done at some point??
> 
> if you're into this dumb, non-existent ship then come find me over at queerglorfindel.tumblr.com OR my friend, maca, and i have a tales of the kin blog, graybronze.tumblr.com so come join the party, y'all.

Death was a lot more comfortable than Drothe thought it would be. Not that he made a habit of giving it much thought - in his line work, it was best to keep it at an arm’s length at best - but he didn’t think there would be feathered pillows in Whatever-the-Hell-Came-After-Death. Or blankets. Or the scent of _ahrami_ and coffee, that might have been stronger if he could bother to concentrate on it for just a second longer.

"Don't get up just yet."

But Angels were definitely in the Not-Life-Place, right? Then again… this Angel sounded a lot like Degan.

He squirmed, trying to remember how words worked, and immediately something pushed down on his right shoulder, the one that didn’t feel like it was ablaze. The voice spoke again, but Drothe was too tired to pick apart the words properly. Something about not moving, or not getting up.

“ ‘m not,” Drothe murmured. His voice was like gravel, and the more he shifted on the bed, the more the springs creaked and the more he became aware of how bruised and battered his body was. He wanted to open his eyes, but his eyelids apparently thought otherwise. “ ’s ‘at? Degan? Where ‘m I?”

There was a familiar-sounding sigh and the rustle of fabric, a hand running through hair, probably ruffling his curls even more. Degan was okay, that was a good start. Drothe? Maybe not so much.

“Brass’ home,” Degan told him. “She arrived shortly after you were injured.”

"Fuck off, no we're not," Drothe wanted to say, but his tongue didn't want to cooperate. It hadn't occurred to them that degans had houses. It seemed too... human. And there was something about degans, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, that was decidedly not human.

Did that mean Degan had a house? Rude of him not to invite Drothe over every once in awhile. Maybe he had embarrassing curtains - he could imagine Degan with fancy, embarrassing curtains. Something that might have been a laugh, but was probably closer to a cough, clawed its way up his throat.

There was pain pounding in the back of his skull, and it was a feat just for him to free just one of his hands from the covers to reach up and touch it.

Bad idea. Why did he think touching the source of the pain would make it better? Still, he could feel bandages wrapped around his hair - Degan's work, or maybe Brass'?

Slowly his eyes flickered open - another feat of strength.

"Don't like Wolf," he croaked. "Hello."

Degan chuckled and there was something akin to relief in his voice. He pulled Drothe’s hand away from his head.

"Don't touch that, you'll make it worse." Knowing Drothe, the wound would open again and most likely get infected. He didn’t remove his hand. Degan didn't know who needed the reassurance granted by it more.

Degan's hand was warmer than it usually was - or maybe it was just because Drothe's felt so cold and clammy. And even though it took his brain a second longer than it should have to realise Degan clung onto him, he was nonetheless glad about it. Looking up at Degan now, an unusual lack of sleep had lined his eyes with purple rings, and exhaustion and relief were evident in his small smile. Drothe grimaced up at him in response. Everything was still a little hazy.

Not wanting to drop Degan's hand - and the warmth accompanying it - Drothe pawed at Degan's leg with his other, signifying as best he could that he wanted to sit up. Whether or not Degan would actually let him was another matter entirely.

"Wha' happened? Is Wolf - is he..."

He could tell from the look on Degan’s face that he didn’t want him to be moving so soon, but there was something of reluctant relent in his expression that showed he knew full well that even if he didn’t help Drothe, it wouldn’t stop him. As funny as Drothe was sure that Degan would find it if he fell face first onto the floor, it would only require more bandages - a precious resource in their line of work.

He placed his free hand on the center of Drothe's back and gently moved him to a semi sitting position. Drothe’s head nodded forward - Degan probably thought he had passed out again, judging from the way he gave Drothe’s hand another quick, if not somewhat frantic, squeeze.

Drothe looked up and scowled sloppily - as best he could, given the circumstances. Clearly Degan wasn't interested in telling him what had happened after he'd been knocked out. That was either a good thing or very very bad. And knowing his damn luck, it was the latter.

 _Damn Degan for caring so much._ What did his health matter if Wolf was still out there? At least, with his help, he didn't topple face first off the bed - as he had done far too many times in the past than he would have liked to admit.

"Damnit, Degan," Drothe said - or rather, he slurred. He was too tired for this, and no amount of _ahrami_ in the world was going to wake him up enough to care, or get rid of the throbbing at the back of his skull. Degan was right - of course he was - about Drothe needing to rest. But fuck that. "Where's Brass? She'll tell me what happened, if you're going to act like that."

"Brass is -" Degan began, but heavy footsteps cut him off. Brass Degan was smiling, filling up the doorway behind Degan’s shoulders. She was dressed in an arguably more laidback version of their regular uniform, but the brass plated sword was ever present at her hip. A degan parting from their sword was never a good idea, one that, thanks to Degan, Drothe knew by heart.

"Brass is what, Bronze?" Brass Degan asked. She sat herself down on the other side of the bed - of _her_ bed, where Drothe was currently half cocooned in all of her blankets and half in Degan’s arms.

"Ah, good," Drothe managed out, "someone sane, at last." He summoned the rest of his strength to squeeze Degan's hand. "This one's being mean to me. Withholding information."

Brass followed his gaze up at Degan and then smiled again at Drothe, softer. If she noticed their hands, she didn't mention it.

She raised an eyebrow. "You didn't tell him?” Brass asked Degan, but from her expression, Drothe could tell she already knew the answer.

Drothe scowled again and somewhere along the line, it turned into a yawn.

"Somebody better tell me or I'll smack you both. Degans or no degans." Not that he had the energy to back up the threat, and Brass confirmed this with a small laugh.

"I've never seen you so modest, Bronze," Brass said to Degan, not dignifying Drothe's weak threat with an answer. "I suppose this means you’re going to leave the storytelling up to me, then? How kind of you.”

“I'm serious. Somebody tell me what happened before I hunt down Wolf and ask _him_ to tell me,” Drothe growled. He didn’t even try to correct himself this time - Wolf, Steel, fuck the formalities. They’d catch on, or they wouldn’t exactly be very good degans.

He watched Brass flick her gaze up at Degan; he immediately looked away.

“You really can pick them, Bronze,” she said around a smirk, and then looked back at Drothe as he pulled another face. “I can’t say much on the matter of Steel, much as I would loved to have make him eat brass, but I don’t doubt he’ll return, and soon. As far as I could tell, after you took your little tumble off the roof, Bronze here leapt down to catch you, and I arrived just in time to cushion his fall. And I haven’t heard a thank you yet, I might add.”

Degan cleared his throat. “Leaping is an overstatement, I would say. And thank you.”

“Was that so hard?”

There was a something of an exhausted smile on Degan’s face as Brass laughed and clapped his shoulder her hand - Drothe felt him shudder, just slightly, under the force of the impact. He was tense, it seemed.

Another sigh. A cold sweat.

 _The bastard forsook their entire mission, all in one extremely stupid move that could - no,_ would _\- have gotten them both killed if it hadn’t been for Brass._

Drothe stared at him, at the crease in his brow. He felt like a toddler fiddling around with a toy puzzle - slowly but surely, all the pieces began slotting into place… they just needed a little brute force from meaty childish fists, is all.

“Hold on… hold on,” Drothe said. He blinked, and then had to rub at his eyes with his free hand. He would have shaken his head if his neck didn't ache so much, his head threatening to fall off. It was less his exhaustion and pain that stumbled his words this time, instead just the shock of it all.

"You - you leapt - you -" he wasn't sure if he was trying to shout at Degan or insult him for his stupidity or thank him - or all of them at once. This was the last thing he needed to add to the cocktail of thrumming fire inside his head, shaking around his thoughts like someone has plunged a stick straight into his subconscious and had just begun to stir.

He didn't realise he was crying until the salt touched his tongue. It didn't matter that Brass was there, just five feet away from where he clenched Degan's hand, his friend’s already pale skin turning white under Drothe's grip. "You leapt off - you - _idiot_ \- I -"

He watched as the apple in Degan’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, all his words stolen or lost. His face turned pale at the onslaught of tears. He clearly didn't know what to do, Drothe’s injuries hindering Degan from holding him.

Eventually, the hand he had on the small of Drothe's back began rubbing it in slow, gentle circles. Degan gestured to Brass with a nod that now would be the best time to leave. There was understanding in her eyes, and Drothe didn’t notice she had left until she was already gone.

"Drothe, I -" Degan cut himself off. Drothe didn’t think there was much he could say anyway.


	3. Among the Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID WE JUST COMPLETE THE FIRST EVER FANFIC FOR THIS FANDOM??? I THINK WE DID. this may actually be the first ever multi-chapter fanfic i have ever completed so bonus points there.
> 
> ALSO!! depending on whether or not i can figure out how to write smut, there may be a bonus chapter/alternate ending to this, but... well, like i said, it just depends... we can only hope, friends. we can only hope.
> 
> side note, some liberties taken with the amount of time degan and drothe have known each other for, since i wasn't sure and the details of their first meeting are a little sketchy for now, so please forgive me for that.

It had been a long time since Drothe had sobbed this hard. Years perhaps, and never in front of Degan. Gray Princes weren't supposed to show weakness, and yet here he was; the shattered, tear soaked remnants that the Kin had unfortunately nicknamed Alley Walker. His words crumbled into heaving gasps, and the more he tried to hold it back, the harder and faster the sobs came.

This was Wolf they were dealing with. _Steel Degan._ Their lives, the empire as they knew it, had never been more threatened than it was now. Drothe, Degan, Brass - the entire Order - _the emperor himself_ \- were all pawns in Wolf's game. Drothe was a speck of dirt on Wolf's shoe by comparison.

Degan - the man who was soul bound to the emperor for over two hundred years, whom Drothe didn't even know as anything other than a paraphrase of his Ordered name - had risked everything - _everything_ \- to save him.

_He was an idiot._ An idiot whose lap Drothe found himself collapsing into, body wracked with ugly sobs, groping at the hem of his doublet like it was the last part of Degan he would ever get to touch.

Degan might have been talking, but Drothe could barely hear over the sound of his own breakdown. All that mattered right now was Degan's hand on his back.

He could only imagine what Degan might be thinking of him. An entire decade of their lives interwoven with one another, and not once - not once - had he allowed Degan to spy a single tear slip loose.

There was a moment, barely a second, where he felt Degan tense, and it turned his blood to ice. He’d lost so much. Degan was one of the most important people in Drothe’s life; one of the only ones left.

Then he felt Degan shifting under him, the arms binding him to his chest tightening, cradling him as if the sudden onslaught of distress had transformed him into a small child, or a rabbit with a broken foot. At the edge of his consciousness he heard Degan’s voice, nose buried into his hair and soothing nothingness a whisper in his ear.

Degan's doublet was thick with the scent of sweat and old blood - however long they had been in Brass' house, Degan hadn't even stepped away from his side to wash.

"Moron," Drothe found himself choking out. The material covering Degan's chest was soaked. He wasn't sure he meant the insult, but he was at a loss for what else to say. Degan's voice in his ear, empty of words, and the pressure of his nose buried in his hair (probably equally greasy and blood-stained, where it wasn't pinned down by the bandages), just above his ear, was enough to soothe the fierce heaves into a gentler, rhythmic shudder. "What the fuck - did you think - you were doing?" The words were barely audible, muffled against Degan's chest.

Some part of him hoped Degan felt guilty, at least enough to apologise for saving Degan’s life. But Drothe knew he wouldn't. He would never.

"I don't know," came the response. A weight pressed down on the top of his head, and it took Drothe a moment before he realised it was Degan resting his cheek on the crown of Drothe’s head.

"That's not an answer," Drothe wanted to tell Degan, to scold him. But the words simply wouldn't come out. All he could do was curl a little more into Degan's tight embrace and hide his tear-stained face in Degan's chest as his sobs simmered down into pathetic whimpers.

Degan was such an idiot. How dare he prize Drothe over their mission, over the emperor. And the worst part was that Drothe knew he would do it again in a heartbeat.

No. The worst part was that, if their roles had been swapped, he would have done exactly the same for Degan.

They stayed like that for Angels only knew how long. It could have been hours. Perhaps even just a few minutes. At one point Degan started to rock them back and forth, keeping a steady pace.

The first time Degan kissed Drothe’s hair, Drothe barely felt it. He was still shuddering with tears when it happened, he’d half-assumed he’d just accidentally brushed the tip of Degan’s nose.

When it happened the second time, he found himself leaning into the touch.

He was still so tired. Crying had only drained him of the last of his energy, and now his eyes had been wrung dry, he thought he could fall asleep with the gentle rise and fall of Degan’s chest as his pillow. He’d forgotten how sore his body was, and now it all came crashing back in wave upon wave of creaking pain.

Drothe shifted in Degan’s lap, just enough to free his arms. Shameless now after his breakdown, he wrapped them around Degan’s middle. It was a long while before he spoke, before he could speak.

“I still think you’re an idiot…”

He didn't mention the kiss. It was a moment that still lingered between them, too pure to taint with exposure. As fragile as glass, there was the possibility of it shattering should either of them bring it to light.

Degan seemed glad of it, anyhow. A gesture of gratitude, if any, he leant his head down to rest his face in Drothe's neck, pressing chaste kisses to the exposed skin.

"At least I'm your idiot.” Degan chuckled. For the first time since Wolf began his pursuit, there was some semblance of humour in it.

Drothe squirmed again. Degan’s kiss had been so butterfly-light that it had almost tickled, but it didn’t stop him from nuzzling his face into Degan’s shirt and tilting his head just enough to expose his neck a little more. “Unfortunately,” he grumbled when Degan laughed quietly again. “At least you’re stuck with me, too. No escape there.”

Drothe gulped down a breath of air and felt it catch in his throat. Degan had begun to lead a trail of gentle kisses all the way up his throat and to his cheek. He kissed it once and pulled away, and suddenly Drothe found him staring straight into blue eyes.

"You say that like I want to escape." There was that voice again, as though Drothe was a rare commodity that fiercely needed protection - not just any protection, not even just any degan’s protection, but that of Bronze’s. It was accompanied with a smile, gentle and contagious.

Despite the exhaustion weighing down on his face, it was surprisingly easy for Drothe to start smiling again. He shivered under the pressure of Degan’s lips on his cheek; it was so easy to forget who he was, and who they were. And where they were - was Brass not downstairs? Or worse… eavesdropping outside the door? Drothe didn’t know Brass well enough to know if that sort of thing were a habit for her, and he didn’t want to insult Degan by asking.

Still, when Degan pulled away - taking with him, the warmth of his mouth against Drothe’s throat and cheek - there was something in his smile that set fire coursing through Drothe’s cheeks. Angels, he wanted to kiss him. That was a new feeling… well, now that he was admitting it to himself at least. And so far, it had been Degan doing all the lip-work, minor caresses to his neck and face… not his lips.

Yet.

That was a whole new level that Drothe wasn’t sure he wanted the responsibility for, no matter how much he wanted to taste.

“I don’t know,” Drothe told him, shrugging. “You might have a better chance of survival if I’m not around. I… wouldn’t blame you if you did want to escape. I could definitely survive by myself out there. Maybe even for an entire hour, if I’m lucky.”

"You give yourself too little credit, at least two," Degan told him, smile widening to show a sliver of teeth. Drothe's cheeks were flushed and swollen. In the back of his mind, Drothe wondered whether anything about their relationship would change.

Perhaps, but nothing so significant it would take away from what they had. He smirked, pushing the thought to the back of his mind. “Maybe three,” Drothe concluded. The tears had dried on his face (or rather, on the front of Degan’s shirt) but his cheeks still felt taut, and he knew his eyes must be a mess. Still, he’d probably looked worse. And maybe if he ignored the fact his cheeks were obviously bright red they would go away. “But only with Fowler hanging around.”

Hesitance giving his hand a quiver akin to that of his voice, he removed one of his hands from where it had fallen to rest on Degan’s hip, and instead flattened his palm gently on Degan’s neck. He glanced at Degan’s lips. Things still felt… the same. But in a good way. If he’d known he’d liked Degan kissing his neck so much, well damn, he’d have broken down sooner.

Degan nodded. Another smile as Drothe moved his hand to rest on his neck. The way he was leaning forward was almost an invitation. There was anticipation in his eyes, gaze flickering between Drothe’s eyes and his lips, but there was still time to move away, should Drothe have wanted to.

Not that he would have wanted to.

Drothe swallowed again. He wanted to lean forward himself, to meet Degan’s lips midway and see if they would be as soft as they looked - but for some reason he found himself frozen. Still, if he couldn’t move his head forward, then the next best thing was to firm up his grip on Degan’s collar and pull his head down to close the distance between their mouths faster.

And then, after just a second, Drothe found himself smiling against Degan’s lips. He was right; they were soft. Certainly softer than you might expect a two hundred and forty two year old man’s lips to be.

Angels - _fuck_. It was like they had come down to bless Drothe personally, ethereal and gracious and exquisite, and yet nothing in comparison to his Degan.

Degan made a noise and the kiss deepened for just a moment.

Then, suddenly, he was gone. Those blue eyes were back to staring at Drothe, and while his cheeks were burning with a fire he hoped to the Angels would not show up on his dark skin, he was pleased to see Degan a little breathless.

The last thing Drothe wanted to do was pull away, but he knew that if didn't stop himself now he wouldn't be able to stop at all. And neither would Degan, from the look of the still parted lips hovering an inch away from his face, the aftertaste of copper staining Drothe’s tongue.

He couldn’t help but whine, even just quietly, when Degan pulled away. There was a moment there - he was sure they had both felt it - where they had both frozen. But then Degan had tilted his head down and the kiss had deepened for just a second, and Drothe had just been getting into it when suddenly there was no more Degan. He hadn’t even had enough time to decipher what Degan tasted like - whatever it was, he was sure he liked it.

Degan cleared his throat. Unlike Drothe, the white of his cheeks had blossomed to a sweet pink. "I'm afraid that if we were to continue this your wounds would open up again," he said. He brought the hand that was in Drothe's hair down to wipe the tear stains on his cheek. "You need rest."

Drothe whined again, ignoring how pathetic it made him sound. Given the circumstances, there was little he could do to make himself look better. “I’ve been beaten worse,” he said, but when he attempted to move his other arm to brush a strand of blonde hair out of Degan’s eyes, the wound in his shoulder flared back into life again. Perhaps he had a point, Angels damn it.

He felt himself being pushed gently down onto the bed. The bed springs creaked when Degan climbed in beside him, dipping almost dangerously in the middle from his added weight. If Brass was listening in right now…

But Drothe, having let himself be pushed down, certainly welcomed the arms that followed, one long limb flopping across his chest and pulling him closer. It was moments like these where Drothe remember just how big Degan was. So tall and so lanky that Drothe was fairly certain that if he sat up and looked down at the end of the bed, Degan’s feet might be sticking off the end.

A kiss was placed on his temple, arms circling his waist as gently as Degan could manage. Drothe’s head was at just the right height to nuzzle into the crook of Degan’s neck. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply - not half because his wounded shoulder was still recovering from the sudden jolt in movement a moment ago. He could fall asleep like this, curled up next to Degan like they were two pieces of a puzzle.

It had been a long day. Or night. Having been unconscious for the majority of it, the passage of time was still something Drothe was having trouble grasping. Wolf was still out there, but that was a chase for another day.

Drothe knew Degan wasn’t asleep - he wasn’t sure if Degan was aware of it, but he had a habit of snoring ever so softly, and while he lay as motionless as one might during sleep, his breathing had yet to slow and deepen into Degan’s tell-tale snore.

Waiting for Drothe to fall asleep first. _Arsehole_.

It hardly mattered anymore. Another few seconds, and Drothe would probably be unconscious.

 


End file.
